The seats were rough with a few frayed covers. There were empty bottles all over the floor. I turned the music up on my phone.
I was out here in the middle of the night. The flat was too big, and the bed empty. The movement helped. The other passengers like ghosts in the windows.
The music played: ‘If It Be Your Will’.
We moved through the night.
The bus slowed to a stop. ‘Everybody Knows’ was playing. We were outside the old cinema, a tree growing out the top.
The driver lit up and had a smoke.
It had been a while since I had one. Since the funeral.
The light is fading out, The shadows have a new lease of life. I cough once, twice. I sound like a motorcycle engine starting up. I breathe in deep, Fuck. Fuck this.
The day never started. I’ve slept. Not much else.
My lungs feel like concrete. Every breath is a battle. Wearing me down. Wearing me out.
Got the lights down low.
I took the bins out earlier, Took me an hour to recover. Heart trying to escape my chest.
Beating like an unreliable drummer.
But I’m here And I’m grateful And I’m lucky.
I’m not good at waiting. Waiting to feel better. I’d rather be down in the trenches. A work in progress.
Put some music on. Close my eyes.
Part Two How blue can you be? Pretty fucking blue. Like the planet.
Or the guitar by the bed. I read it’s 620–670 Terahertz, But it feels more like “Blue Car” by Greg Brown. The radio just doesn’t do that. Put the song on. Let it play.
Down from the mountain. The smell from her vape still lingers. Yellow hair. The way her body felt next to mine. Those late nights. Early mornings. Up all night, watching the sunrise over our little town. I drive down its old streets, alone at 5:00 AM.
Green. Yellow. Red.
Blue.
Waiting.
Watching the birds soaring through the morning sky. Staying warm. Or are they out of here?
Am I the only person alive in this whole town?
Waiting for the blue light to change. Park up.
Walk through the cracked pavements and empty streets, Alone at the coffee shop. Everyone fussing about nothing.
Black coffee. Pure. Simple.
Sunset, all orange and yellow. If I could paint, I would paint it. If I could sing, well I’d be a different person. I don’t have much. These words
And the world turns. And life goes on. So I sit beneath the darkening sky, With an old guitar, just missing her for a while.
Part Three Till I walk along the river Winding through this town, Through our lives, To the bus station,
Lit up in the street lights. Someone sleeping on the bench Look at the destinations Maybe I’ll just
Go
Somewhere. Anywhere. She had the choice. She stayed. For love. For me.
I’m moving.
Past all the rows of houses. . Back to where I belong.
To myself. To her.
Part Four Sleeping in our bed. Her fan on.
Even in the winter -2 outside.
The moonlight above the trees sneaking in the window.
Her skin. Her touch.
Our bodies together.
Her kiss. The world fades. Her. Me. Home.
Part Five We’re in the garden on those two camp seats we bought for the beach. Speaker playing her favourite band, I hope they tour again.
Fuck, the world got old. We’re older too. But young enough. And happy.
Her favourite song, the one she heard at the Chinese restaurant playing country music. It’s a beauty.
Beneath a blue Ayrshire sky.
Still here. Still in love.
I hear the snare. The guitar. The music.
The big blue beautiful sky.
Let’s dance, while we can. In this moment.
Part 6
She sat at the table. Doing a jigsaw. Cup of coffee.
Worried about the state of the world.
She said: “Read me something. Something you wrote.”
I read her: “Ayrshire Light” “Context”
A chapter from “Burn”
She laughed. She smiled. Worried what her mum would think.
She said: You know.
The writing.Is you.
Anyone else. I probably would have told them to fuck off. But I told her. I know.
I was dreaming last night. About you. And me. We were walking to our house, under the Scottish sun. Its warmth. Light.
Ayrshire light. Leading us home.
We walked hand in hand.
The house sat on its own. In a clear, empty field. An endless sky above, clouds rolling across its deep blue. A gravel path. A garden alive with colours. Up the step.
The door open, we crossed the threshold together.
The house is warm. A fire burning. I poured us a drink. We sat together. Smiles, Laughter. The music played. You ran your hands through my hair.
This is some of the writing from my story ‘Follow the Light’
And we are off, bleary-eyed, into the Ayrshire morning. Emmy looks gorgeous, her short blonde hair and a smile that I would never tire of seeing.
My car sitting on the street coughs up a cloud of exhaust fumes as I turn the key. A few commuters on their way to the station do a double-take, but we breeze past them, leaving them choking in our wake.
We get a good run of lights as we hit the dual carriageway. I light up a smoke, and she flicks through the radio until she finds something she likes. The radio crackles to life with one of those old songs you know but can’t quite place.
For a moment, it’s like we aren’t ghosts at all.
We sing along to the chorus. She looks at me, and I look straight back. The engine opens up on the dual carriageway and we are cutting through the Ayrshire morning.
We’re analogue in a digital age; we’re radio in the streaming age.
We are the words written on the page.
And we don’t give a fuck if that’s good enough for you.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 